


Of Monsters and Men

by Glare



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Kind of Sugar Daddy!Finch AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 13:56:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5208386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glare/pseuds/Glare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cool night air slips easily through John’s thin coat and bites against his skin as he staggers through the New York streets. A bottle of whiskey, half empty, is clutched loosely in hand. There’s no destination in mind on nights like this; when it’s cold and peaceful and for just a little while the incessant pounding in his head quiets to something almost manageable. A night like this is going to kill him one day. He’s come to terms with that. One peaceful night he’s going to wander too close to the bridge and John Reese will be no more. It’s probably for the better. John Reese is a monster, off-leash and alone; a ticking bomb with no visible timer. There’s no place in the world for people like John Reese.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Monsters and Men

**Author's Note:**

> This stupid drabble spiraled massively out of control please send help.  
> Intended to be a Sugar Daddy!Finch AU, but took a bit of a different direction once I actually started writing it. Close enough for government work, IMO.

The cool night air slips easily through John’s thin coat and bites against his skin as he staggers through the New York streets. A bottle of whiskey, half empty, is clutched loosely in hand. There’s no destination in mind on nights like this; when it’s cold and peaceful and for just a little while the incessant pounding in his head quiets to something almost manageable. A night like this is going to kill him one day. He’s come to terms with that. One peaceful night he’s going to wander too close to the bridge and John Reese will be no more. It’s probably for the better. John Reese is a monster, off-leash and alone; a ticking bomb with no visible timer. There’s no place in the world for people like John Reese.

It doesn’t seem like tonight will be that fateful night, though, when a sound from a nearby alley draws his attention away from the introspection. It’s nothing, really, barely audible over the ever-present background of city sounds. But John hears it; he’s been trained to hear it. A distressed noise that bypasses every rational thought, traveling straight to the crumbling remains of humanity he’s buried deep away. His legs are moving before he even considers stopping himself.

There’s a small bird in the alleyway, a trembling little man with wire-rimmed glasses and unruly brown hair, pinned to the brick by a typical New York thug and holding a briefcase tight to his chest. Stout, broad-shouldered, bare arms decorated with cheap tattoos. John can’t smell them from the mouth of the alley, but he’d bet the little bird is choking on the scent of body odor and booze. Behind Thug 1, two near identical cohorts are laughing at their victim’s weak protests. John slips into the shadows as he approaches, like a predator stalking prey. It’s a familiar action that helps to clear some of the buzz from his drink.

“Just gimme your watch and the bag and I won’t have to hurt you,” Thug 1 sneers, looming intimidatingly over the little bird.

The man takes off his watch, shoving it into his attacker’s chest. “Please just take it. I don’t want any trouble.”

“Oh you’re going to find trouble, all right, if you don’t give me that bag.”

“Please, you have to understand, I can’t-”

The whiskey bottle shatters with a satisfying sound against the back of Thug 1’s skull. The man crumples, and the little bird stares wide-eyed as John lunges from the shadows, engaging Thugs 2 and 3 before either can entirely process what has happened. Thug 2 goes easy, too surprised to put up much of a fight. Thug 3 isn’t much better off, but he’s armed with a knife and manages to get one good blow to John’s shoulder in before he, too, hits the pavement.

There’s a hole in John’s shoulder, his breath comes in pants, and the frightened little bird has yet to move from his place against the wall, staring slack-jawed with disbelief at the savior before him. John himself is almost equally surprised, still entirely unsure exactly what spurred him to step in on this little man’s behalf. Still, he bends, fighting a grimace and prying the man’s watch from Thug 1’s meaty hands.

“I think this is yours.”

“T-thank you,” the man stutters, taking the watch gingerly, as though sudden movement might spook John into further action. He doesn’t bother to put it back on, simply stuffing it into the pocket of his overcoat as his eyes drift to John’s bleeding shoulder.

“You’re hurt,” the little bird murmurs, finally moving, taking a short step closer. John mirrors it with a step back, and a hurt expression flickers inexplicably over the smaller man’s face at the action.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“I really think you should-” There’s a crashing at the far end of the alley, likely a stray cat or unruly youth knocking over a trashcan, but it draws the little bird’s gaze from John just long enough for him to slip into the shadows and disappear, gone as quickly as he came. He’ll find a wad of crumpled bills in one of the pockets of his coat, later, and have no idea how it got there.

\--

There is nothing spectacular about the days following the alley incident. John does his best to keep the stab wound clean, but there is only so much to be done. Joan regularly drowns it in alcohol and rewraps it in cloth as close to clean as it gets in a homeless camp, tutting all the while about reckless behavior. It reminds him distantly of his mother, who used to scold him similarly when he’d come home with cuts and bruises from a fight with another schoolyard bully. _Did you win?_ She’d ask, and he’d smile up at her with a split lip and a black eye and say _Nah, but I’ll get ‘em next time._ John wonders what she’d think if she could see him now—what she’d think of him now that he can fight and win. He wonders if she’d be ashamed of what he’s done with those skills. He would, if he were her.

After a few days, though, his shoulder has grown raw and inflamed from infection. He stumbles back to his corner of the camp and rustles through his meagre belongings in search of something to wrap it with, only to stop cold when he finds an unfamiliar bag tucked away under a covering of dirty blankets. Inside is a collection of medical supplies: gauze and medical tape and disinfectant. Surgical thread, needles, painkillers. Even a prescription bottle of strong antibiotics. John doesn’t know where any of it has come from, the antibiotics alone likely worth more than the camp’s population combined, but he can’t bring himself to look a gift horse in the mouth when he’s in such sorry shape. Joan stitches him up with surprisingly steady hands and the learned silence of the homeless.

Later, when the wound is pink with new scar tissue and John can find the energy to go out and roam the streets again, he returns to books. Several neat stacks in a variety of genres, their covers battered with age and abuse. Second-hand, then. He thumbs through a few of them, allowing himself the unexpected pleasure of old-paper smell and the feel of worn pages, and tucks the most promising away for later perusal. The others are burned to fend off the bitter cold of winter nights. Even so, more books still come.

There are blankets. Blankets and clothes, food and healthcare supplies, all tucked into neat boxes just outside the doors to camp, protected from the elements by the slight overhand of the roof. More than enough to supply the entire population with fresh supplies, enough to keep bellies full for another week at least. He enlists a handful of others to help him divvy it all out. His stomach does a flip when he opens one of the boxes to reveal another one inside, this one labeled in _John_ in elegant, curvy handwriting. He takes it back to his little space, only daring to open it much later. Inside is a suit, solid black, and a crisp white dress shirt. Nice shoes. He’s briefly taunted by a memory of Kara scolding him for folding his suits when he was still green, complaining about the creases left in the fabric. John chases it from his mind with feeling of the jacket in his hand, familiar and welcome. He’s suddenly desperate for a shower and a chance to wear it, to slide back into his second skin. Instead, he reverently folds it all away and thinks _later_.

It is the first time the thinks about the future, and finds himself looking forward to something more than death.

\--

The final straw is an envelope, innocuous enough, resting atop the box containing his suit. His name is there again, in identical scrawl. Its contents pour into John’s waiting palm: passports, IDs, currency, plane tickets to a variety of exotic places. The face that smiles up at him is like something from another life. It is the John Reese before Mexico, before the Agency, before Ordos. Care-free and open and John’s heart clenches at the sight. Suddenly, enough is enough. Suddenly, the passive interest he’s harbored about the identity of his mysterious benefactor roars to life and he _needs to know_.

It takes days. Hours upon hours spend of rooftops surveilling or on foot tailing. But eventually, he does find it. A delivery receipt from a trashcan near the camp leads him to an apartment building in a wealthier part of the city. John gets suspicious looks from the people he passes, glaringly out of place with his raggedy clothes and the box containing his suit and books and IDs tucked under his arm, but trudges on nonetheless. He is on a mission now, and he’s be damned if a couple of sour looks stop him. The building’s concierge is another story, but the matter is quickly resolved when John plucks one of the licenses at random from his box and offers it to him. John Rooney, and John suspects all of the other identities as well, is on a guest list for the penthouse apartment. He’s given a key and ushered in the direction of the elevator bank.

The apartment is something John could only dream of being able to afford, even during his stint with the CIA. Spacious, with an open floorplan and floor-to-ceiling windows on one side that overlook a quaint little park. John takes a moment to watch the people, jogging or relaxing or playing chess, before going in search of the bathroom. While there is still more investigation to be done, he is alone for now and the desire to get clean enough to try on the suit has become like an itch under his skin. It takes some trial and error, leading to the discovery of a several large closets in the process, but he eventually finds the right door.

The hot water, just this side of scalding, is like heaven against his skin. John can’t remember the last time he’d taken a warm shower, and spends a fair amount of time just standing under its spray and relishing in the feeling. Lined up on a shelf are a variety of soaps, each of which he inspects before selecting the one that’s seen the most use. Months of sweat and grime is sluiced away, leaving his skin pink and pleasantly raw. There’s a razor and scissors under the sink. Pulling on the suit feels exactly as good as John expected it to. There are creases in the fabric that will have to be addressed later, and it hangs like something straight off the rack, but by the time John’s done, the face in the mirror is a more familiar sight than the one he’s been seeing reflected back at him since Ordos. He feels… good.

\--

The list of suspects isn’t a long one, so John isn’t surprised in the least when the little bird from the alley walks through the front door several hours later. In fact, his was the only name on the list. If John had a name for the man. He rustled through most of the apartment in the hours between his and the other man’s arrival, but had yet to find a single document identifying him. In fact, most of the apartment looked straight out of a furniture catalogue. Cold and impersonal. John threw in the towel eventually, sprawling out on the ridiculously comfortable couch instead and dozing for a while. The little bird is as unsurprised to see John as John is to see him, toeing off his shoes at the door without comment before approaching. John clocks the man’s limp as he sits up, now that he has a chance to really take him in.

“Why?” John asks softly, not bothering to stand or explain further. If John was unwelcome there would have been no key waiting, and they both know what he’s asking about.

“You saved my life. It was the least I could do.” The little bird says, taking a bold step forward and into John’s space, standing nearly between his legs. “There’s a lot I could do for you, Mr. Reese, if you’d let me.”

The use of his true name, or the closest you can get in the intelligence community, would have upset John had it come from anyone else. But this fascinating man has already proven an interest in caring for John. If he’s wanted to hurt him, he could have done it a long time ago.

“And what would you get out of that?” John asks.

“Good company, for a start,” the man replies, watching John with a near overwhelming intensity, “and I certainly won’t get mugged again.”

It’s enough to startle a laugh out of John. The whole situation is so ridiculous, so unbelievable, like a scene straight out of one of the trashy romance novel. He can’t wrestle the stupid grin on his face back under control, though, and he feels very suddenly like there isn’t enough oxygen in the room. The little bird’s lips curl into a small, knowing smile. There really isn’t another answer.

“What call you, then?”

“Mr. Finch will do, for now.”

\--

John is not wired for board meeting and charity galas, but he can never find it in him to complain. He would drive or open doors or hang off Finch’s arm anywhere if only to see the smug smile that graces the smaller man face at the envious glares of the upper crust. Finch is always pleased to show John off with finely tailored suits and accessories matching Finch’s own. The whispers that follow them are the man’s lifeblood—a surprising quirk when he is so intensely private in every other aspect. John finds it hopelessly endearing.

And it’s not all champagne and shrimp puffs. Sometimes Finch will get a phone call, and John will be sent off to bash skulls. He never asks and Finch never tells, but it’s an excellent way to relieve the pent-up energy after time in high society. Sometimes he comes home battered and bruised, and Finch will putter about the apartment, muttering about John’s reckless nature, gathering the supplies needed for first aid. _I hope you at least won, Mr. Reese_? Finch asks, even though they both know he did, and John will answer _Yeah, Harold, I did._

At night he curls up in a warm bed, listening in the dark the sound of Finch’s breathing. Finch never asks for anything John hasn’t freely offered. If John is honest, the hours they spend lying together, talking of everything and nothing, are just as intimate as anything else they could get up to. Each little detail he learns about Finch is a gift. John knows it will take time for the man open up all the way, and until then he’ll buy John more suits and guns and bandages. In the meantime, John will cherish them and what they represent. Because he may be a monster, but he’s on a leash and no longer alone, and his future is bright.


End file.
